Vigilante
by thisislandgirl
Summary: It wanted revenge … and tonight, he agreed with the beast.  Dark story, please mind the rating, CHARACTER DEATH


**Vigilante**

**Fandom/Character:** CSI/Nick Stokes

**Prompt: **#9-Efface

**Rating: **R

**Warning: **revenge, dark thoughts, language, death, violence

**Disclaimer:** I don't own them nor do I condone this type of reckless, vengeful behavior. It's just fiction. If you have a problem with it, please move on.

**Summary: **It wanted revenge … and tonight, he agreed with the beast.

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**Vigilante**

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It stared off slowly, like a lazy snake uncoiling from its slumber on a sun-heated rock. Dark and full of malice it swirled around him, make his stomach clench, making his heart flutter, making his hands shake. Ire. Rage. Odium. No words were strong enough to encompass its power, to fully describe what he felt tearing him apart ever so slowly.

And he was powerless to stop it.

Some days he could tamp it down; drown it with tequila, sweat it out at the gym, or mute it with sleeping pills. But it never went away. It would back off for a while, ever lurking, ever waiting for a trigger to set it off, stronger and harder to battle than before. Just like it was today.

Nick sucked in a deep breath through his nose and held it until his lungs burned and his head was fuzzy. Then with a heavy sigh he let it escape, hoping that he would be better under control now. Only he wasn't. His hands still shook and his blood boiled with anger. He sat hunched over on the bench in the locker room, his head in his hands as he fought for control. But it wouldn't be tamed today. He knew what needed to be done but he was having a hard time controlling the tears as memories of the latest heinous crime filtered through his memory.

Twins girls. Tiny little things, delicate and beautiful at the tender age of three. Their room was pretty in pink, decorated in ballerinas and pictures of family vacations and lace. The way a little girl's room is supposed to look, happy and cheerful. Dolls on the floor, bed covered in stuffed animals, beginner books lining the shelves next to two identical piggy banks. The only thing out of place was the blood. It covered the sheets, spattered on the walls, pooled on the pillows.

You could have easily mistaken them for sleeping if it weren't for the spatter patterns and the bruises. They were both lying in their shared bed, eyes closed, faces peaceful and relaxed. There were bruises ringing their necks, on their slender wrists, even on their cheeks where an unkind hand met its target. Both their throats were slashed; the knife that did the deed laying innocently on the floor as if it hadn't just extinguished the light in two babies' eyes.

And there was their drunk off his ass, higher than a bird, dead beat father sitting in the living room. Lies spilling forth from his lips in booze tainted breath. No, he hadn't called the cops, he told them to leave, but they searched the property anyway. And every piece of evidence they had collected went right down the drain, the judge ruling it all inadmissible.

Nick allowed his hands two hard slams into his locker door before he slumped back down to the bench. It was one of those nights, the ones that came only a select few times a year when the beast inside him couldn't be pacified. It wanted revenge; its bloodlust wouldn't be slated until Charles Roberts ended up like his two little girls, lying on a cold morgue slab in a case with no leads. And tonight, he agreed with the beast.

The door to the locker room opened, the rest of the team slowly walking in, each passing a sympathetic look towards Nick before heading to their lockers. Nick took another deep breath and stood up, his still shaking hands fumbling with the lock on his locker. Wrenching the door open, he un-holstered his gun, disabling it before he stowed it on the small shelf along with his badge. He tugged off his shirt, hoping that all the memories floating around his head would go with it. With no success, Nick started packing up his duffle, only pausing when he felt two hands on his shoulder.

He turned behind him to see Grissom on one side, Warrick on the other. He gave them a barely there smile and finished tying up his boots.

"You pulled a rough case, Nick. And you did well." Grissom gave his arm a small squeeze for emphasis. "It was the fault of the responding officers, not you. The DA is working on a confession from him, but for now he's out of lock-up, he made bail. We'll see how it looks tomorrow."

Nick nodded, the placating words rolling off him like water. With a shrug the hands on his shoulders slipped off. He shoved his dirty shirt in his bag and his cell phone in his pocket. His first steps out the door were halted by Warrick's voice.

"Come have breakfast with us man." Warrick stepped up behind Nick, his hand reaching out once again to console his obviously hurting friend. "I'll even buy ya a drink. Just … let it go, man. We'll get him."

Nick swallowed the angry words that wanted to spill forth. It took him a minute to compose himself, but when he turned back around, his smile was almost true. "I'll meet you at the diner. I have a few things to do before that."

And with that, Nick was out the door, heading for his truck at a forcedly slow gait. Can't make it seem like he was roiling inside, he wasn't in a hurry. No suspicious glances, Nick picked up the pace a bit until he was in his truck heading out. Charles Roberts would regret the day he laid a hand on his daughters. But it would only last a second.

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He sat in his truck, parked in the alley just up from the rear exit of the bar. Three days, 72 hours spent agonizing over every aspect of this man's life, had finally proven useful as he caught sight of his prey stumbling out of the bar. His hand itched to open the door and run after the man, but his mind knew better. He wasn't going to act on instinct. It had to be calculated and executed with perfect precision or all would be for naught.

So he settled back in his seat and watched in his rearview mirror as Charles Roberts slumped against the brick wall, head in one hand as the other hand fumbled around in his pocket. His stomach turned as he watched the man, it was barely morning for the waking world and already he was drunk. He fought down the rage building as he wiggled his fingers into latex gloves, then into the leather pair. He glanced at the clock once more, judging his ever shrinking window of time before he stepped out of the truck.

He wasn't quiet. There was no real need to be. Plus he wanted to see the look of fear in his prey's eyes. So he slammed the truck as he stalked up the alley, his hands flexing in the gloves with each step. Charles slowly turned his head to see where the unexpected noise came from, his drunken gaze widening in delayed reaction as he saw the angry Texan striding towards him, murder written plainly in his eyes. Then his stomach lurched, much of his recently consumed liquor and stale bar peanuts making a reappearance on the garbage bags in front of him.

As Charles started to vomit, he picked up his pace. He reached his quarry just as the heaves ceased. With one kick he had the drunk crashing to his knees, trying unsuccessfully to break his fall with his hands. Then he kneeled down over his victim, his knees pinning Charles legs together so he couldn't move. He wrenched Charles's hands behind his back, holding them still with one hand while his other applied slow pressure to the back of his neck, pushing his face into his own sick.

He cast a slightly nervous look around the alley before he applied more pressure. There were many things he wanted to say the man barely struggling beneath him, but he held his tongue. He wouldn't make that mistake. He wouldn't give the man the satisfaction of knowing just how deep under his skin he got. Instead, he ran through the tirade in his head, pushing just a little harder with each silence statement.

The struggles were growing weaker with each passing second. He could no longer hear the wet gasps of the man sucking in tiny bits of air and his own vomit. There was no getting air now that his face was pushed fully into the plastic bag. Then after a few more seconds, the body beneath him went slack, the chest hitching and spasming as it fought for oxygen.

Even after the chest stopped rising and the pulse beneath his fingers ceased, he stayed there, ever pushing, ever cursing until finally his tirade was done. Then he slowly stood up, letting the slack arms fall where they may. He shucked off the leather gloves and tossed them into the dumpster, then pocketed the latex gloves on his saunter back to the truck.

Finally the beast was quiet.

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**Fin**


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